I walked over to Vivian, still in the unfinished dress, and sat down beside her on the velvet bench. “You’re right,” I said softly. “The bride’s family should contribute. Let me make a call.” I dialed my mother on speaker. “Mom, Vivian wants to discuss the wedding budget. Can you loop in Uncle Theodore?” Vivian’s smirk twitched. She’d never asked about my mother’s family. She’d assumed “widow in a duplex” meant the story ended there. What she didn’t know: my father, before he died, had been a junior partner at a quiet little firm called Marsten-Hale Holdings. He’d left everything in a trust managed by his brother — my Uncle Theodore Marsten — who, last I checked, owned the building Vivian’s husband leased his dental practice out of. Theodore came on the line, warm as ever. “Hannah, darling. Is this about the wedding? I told you, whatever number you want, it’s done. Half a million? A million? Your father would’ve wanted the world for you.” Silence. Vivian’s pearls suddenly looked very heavy on her throat. Daniel finally looked up from his phone. Then Theodore added, casually, “Also, tell Gregory Ashford his lease renewal is on my desk. We should grab dinner before I sign.” Vivian’s face went the color of the boutique walls. She started stammering about how she’d been “testing my character,” how of course the Ashfords would pay, how she’d always seen me as a daughter. I stood up, smoothed the half-pinned gown, and stepped back onto the platform. “Resume the alterations, please,” I told the seamstress. Then I turned to Vivian and smiled the vanilla smile. “Don’t worry about the budget, Vivian. My family’s got it. But I do think it’s time you learned the difference between someone who’s quiet and someone who’s poor.” Daniel proposed again that night — on his knees, alone, asking if I’d still have him after what his mother said. I said yes. But Vivian wasn’t invited to the rehearsal dinner. Or the wedding. Turns out the bride’s family really does decide.
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